


sunlight will shine against your skin

by newsbians



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, NOT a text fic but like... only a little bit., all the characters will be there eventually i swear, also eventual reddie, but a multi chapter fic because i hate myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-10-26 04:55:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20736554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbians/pseuds/newsbians
Summary: two boys meet in the middle.





	1. when you appeared

**Author's Note:**

> the working title for this fic is "i love you, always forever" so listen to that song plz  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the working title for this fic is "i love you, always forever" so listen to that song plz

heighhosilveraway: well first of all, fuck off

lendmeyourbones: Only if you ask nicely. 

heighhosilveraway: YOU tell ME my cross stitch isn’t good and YOU tell ME to be nice?????

heighhosilveraway: homophobia

heighhosilveraway: homophobia and bigotry

lendmeyourbones: Must we go back to the homophobia argument? Back down dictionary lane? 

heighhosilveraway: say my cross stitch was good

heighhosilveraway: Now

lendmeyourbones: I won’t dignify that. Plus, I have to go. Duty calls. 

heighhosilveraway: boooooo

heighhosilveraway: i’ve been left without praiseeeeee

lendmeyourbones: Well if your cross stitching wasn’t so shitty…

lendmeyourbones: Kidding. Bye James.

heighhosilveraway: i’ll miss you!!!!!!!!!!!

A light tinkling of a bell alerted him of a customer’s entrance as Bill slid his phone into his back pocket. He was sitting behind the counter on a tall stool, carefully threading together a flower field on some linen found in the back. Admittedly it wasn’t his finest work, but the daisies weren’t as crooked as the roses and the roses weren’t even close to the mess of carnations he had begun with. The gigantic shipment of embroidery kits were sitting open at his feet, waiting to be stocked onto the shelves. Since it was a particularly slow day, Bill had decided to crack one open and give it a shot, with no apparent luck. 

A boy who looked about his age walked up to the counter and swept the curls out of his face. He had a small, pointed smile and a starched collar, all of which Bill could appreciate, and a piece of paper clutched tightly in his fist. “Hello. I was wondering if I could speak to the store manager?” His voice was firm yet soft, but the question put Bill on edge. When someone asked for the manager, it was usually to complain about something that was far beyond his control but still his problem to fix. (“My paint is too clumpy!” “These markers dried out too fast. Yes, I let my son leave them without the caps on.” “I took your Saturday class and no one will buy my art still!”) Needless to say, he didn’t love people who had the irritating need to speak to the manager. 

The stitched flower field lay abandoned by the tip jar as he stuck his hand out in a greeting. “Bill. I own the shop, actually. What can I do you for?” Immediately the boy straightened his back and took his hand, widing his smile just a bit. 

“My name is Stanley Uris and I was wondering if you’re hiring right now? I saw the sign in the window about a week ago and noticed it was taken down, but curiosity killed the cat.” Bill laughed as he ran a hand through his hair. 

“I’m Bill. Let’s just say I didn’t have to fend off any crazed applicants, if you know what I mean. If you don’t, the position is still available.” Both boys laughed awkwardly and in the silence that followed, Stanley placed his resume on the counter. It was neatly typed and Bill could already see an impressive list of experience. 

He turned it around to get a closer look when he gave a gasp of delight. “You studied with Aaron Rose?” Bill had always admired the man’s cutting edge work that combined light, movement, and wordplay. It managed to leave him breathless every single time. 

Stan smiled sheepishly. “We went to school together. He’s an old buddy.” 

“You went to NYU?” Bill’s mouth practically watered at the mention of art school. 

Again, the boy nodded and hung his head low, letting his mop of curls drape themselves in front of his face. He didn’t understand the tentative nature the boy took on when he clearly was talented, but Bill didn’t question further and finished reading the resume. Lots of studio art. Digital work every once and awhile, but he wasn’t concerned with that. The computer in the store was taken from his parents' house, where it had lived for about ten years before that, and it barely had email accessibility. He had references listed and his special skills were strong, and Bill set the paper down, satisfied. Stanley was watching him with baited breath through the curtain of hair, brown eyes barely peeking through, and felt the unspoken critique of his shoddy resume. Barely any experience outside of school, an overpriced and overrated university, his hot shot friend mentioned for prestige, and one of his references was completely made up. (His friend Richie could do one hell of a disgruntled old artist impersonation.) 

It took a minute, but Bill finally looked up. Surprisingly, he looked pleased. “Okay. Stanley. Tell me one fact about yourself that isn’t on this list.” 

Taken aback by the odd question, Stanley took a second to ponder. Even for an artist, he was considered to be quite the formal guy. Everything had to be done by the book in Stanley’s world, and anything worth knowing about him would have been listed on the paper sitting in front of what he hoped to be his future employer. He couldn’t think of anything appropriate to tell Bill (because saying “My favorite movie is Hot Tub Time Machine.” seemed a little too far fetched) until a song came to mind. 

“I love Edward Byrnes.” He blurted out.  _ Just like Andy _ , Bill fondly thought. “Fifties music in general. It makes me feel nostalgic for a time I never had.” The wistfulness in his voice made Bill narrow his eyes. 

“Nostalgic for racism? Homophobia?” The stinging in his tone made Stanley stutter for a second. 

“No! No no. No, I’m jewish. So obviously I don’t miss  _ that _ whole thing it’s just the  _ idea _ of the fifties is nice. And also I’m gay. I don’t want any of that.” Bill laughed at the boy’s panicked attempts at backtracking and the rising flush underneath his collar. 

“Sorry. I just had to make sure.” He gave the boy a second to recover, eyeing the cross stitch and pushing it further under the register. “One more question, Stan. Why do you want to work here?” Bill’s tone softened for a second as he thought about the implications of his question. The resume before him had so many accomplishments, and this was a tiny art shop in a long stretch of stores that were all crammed together.

The blush was still creeping up the sides of his neck when Stan answered. “I’ve been here before for your Saturday class, actually. Bagels with Bill? I sat in the back and it was a pretty crowded session, so I’m sure you don’t remember, but we painted a railroad crossing.” Stan took a moment as Bill’s eyes lit up with familiarity. “You were amazing to watch. The room was totally enraptured by the way you explained all the different techniques, and you were so nice to the little boy who kept knocking his paint water over. After I left that day I guess I subconsciously kept passing by here until I saw the help wanted sign, and I took it as fate.” He rubbed his cheeks, embarrassed with how red they were. “It’s an artist’s dream to work somewhere they feel at home and I could see myself loving this place.” 

A pang ran through Bill as he sent his gaze to the floor. This store meant the world to him, and all he had ever wanted was for other people to find solace here the way he had. “Well, Stan, if you can start on Monday, I can draw up the paperwork.” Stanley’s eyes flew up to meet his, filled with glee. 

They enthusiastically shook hands and Stan bit back a grin that threatened to take up his entire face. “Thanks, Bill. Should I still call you Bill? Do you prefer a Mr…?”

“Denbrough, but no thanks. I think you’re actually older than me, if graduation dates mean anything.” Bill peered at the resume, which read _ NYU Class of ‘16 _ . “I was the class below you. It’d be too weird if anyone called me Mr. Denbrough.” 

“Got it. Bill.” Stanley flashed another smile, this time showing a hint of dimple, and began leaving the store. Bill turned around to the back office where he would have to call his dad and ask what kind of paperwork he would need to draw up for a new employee. “Oh!” Both boys turned around. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” The filtered sunlight from the storefront lit Stanley up from behind, and Bill knew in that instant he had made the right decision. 

“Of course. It was fate, right?” 

heighhosilveraway: ready to admit my cross stitch was good or are you still being a little bitch

lendmeyourbones: I’ll die before I admit anything of the sort. 

heighhosilveraway: screw off

heighhosilveraway: also do you think a sunlight-y glow should be more deep yelloe or pale

lendmeyourbones: *Yellow. 

lendmeyourbones: Why? Butchering some sunflowers? 

heighhosilveraway: more like a halo actually 

heighhosilveraway: inspiration just struck 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i'm doing an exercise where i write at least one page a day and so this is how this fic came into existence. it won't be good or edited but read if you please. leave a comment and i'll stitch you a field of flowers.  
follow me on tumblr @/deafwestnewsies


	2. and then suddenly things were new

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Love Bill Denbrough!

His favorite thing about mornings was the quiet stretch the world seemed to do, like one you would do in bed, arms rolling back into their sockets, muscles warming up, legs flexed and toes pointed. If you caught the sun while it was still rising, the dew settling across your skin and the warmth of the early heat resting on the dip of your neck, there was something magical to be said about mornings. Bill considered his walk from his apartment to the store his favorite time of day, where he could play soft acoustics in his earbuds and blink the sleep out of his eyes in peace. He usually came to the store a bit early to make sure everything was in its place, but this morning he had to finish off a painting. 

It was more of an itch he couldn’t scratch once he thought of the idea. A man shrouded in light, a background of brilliant gold. There was no specific point in time to say when inspiration struck (if he was being honest with himself, there was an exact moment, but he didn’t have time to unpack that right now) but instead an urgent rush to get a paintbrush in his hand. Once Bill closed up shop, he grabbed a smaller canvas and immediately began working. It wasn’t until his roommate texted him  _ (Billy am I making dinner for the both of us?) _ that he realized he had been sitting in his shop for almost five hours, the daylight dimming into a deep dusk. There was nothing Bill wanted to do more than finish, but he knew he had to get home to sleep. 

Routine was a very important thing for Bill Denbrough. Even as an artist who was supposed to be free willed and spirited, he found solace in timers, schedules, and always knowing what his next move was going to be. There was control he could inflict upon himself without it being a nuisance to anyone else, besides the fact that he’s known to be notoriously early to parties, so  _ always tell Big Bill an hour late! _ Routine made life easy to understand, something that Bill didn’t always have the luxury of comprehending. The way he managed to plan his life out was his one rowboat in the middle of a raging sea. 

However, he found himself willing to break from the lines for art on the briefest of occasions, and this painting was calling his name. It wasn’t straying too far from his normal schedule, still close enough to where his stomach didn’t hurt with an abundance of sleep or the lack of time to get somewhere. Instead, he just had to turn on the overhead lights when he entered The Artist’s Attic instead of letting the natural light filter in, as it did on normal mornings. 

Bill moved in his quick and easy-going way around the store, taking the worn path from the register to grab the keys and break a new drawer, open the grates over the Sharpies and cans of spray paint, filling all of the water cups by the easels, and finally settling down in his back room. It wasn’t quite an office, as the space was meant to be used, but instead a mash of sketch pads, random pencils and pens, an open pot of ink, canvases with the work that he would attempt to sell at the local coffee shop, and a folding table with a vase of brilliant flowers. Setting the keys down with an air of finality, Bill’s eyes settled on the painting before him. 

Just an outline was finished at the moment, the finer details of the work still needed to be filled in. But the golden shimmer then emitted from an unknown light source behind the man was a deep, rich yellow that blended together with tones of orange and red to make the canvas almost glow with life. He had avoided too many crimsons for fear it would look fiery, but the product showed that he had met his mark entirely: This man was an angel returning to the Heavens. As Bill sat down and began mixing paints, he thought about the moment when Stanley had turned himself around to give him a soft smile and the sudden image of a halo had introduced itself. 

There was a feeling of warmth that had spread throughout his entire body and somehow, Bill couldn’t shake it. He woke up with its golden fingers still running themselves through his body and left him feeling lighter than air. Truly, he wasn’t able to describe the feeling itself or why it had washed over him all of a sudden, but Bill knew that it felt stronger whenever he thought about the boy he had hired on a whim without a proper interview. It wasn’t like he absolutely needed help in the store, it was a fairly quiet business, but Bill felt himself grow lonely in the hours spent rearranging shelves and answering the same questions over and over again. There was a charm Stanley carried with him on the tips of his shoulders, balanced there by his neat mannerisms and perfect posture. He wasn’t sure if it was inappropriate of him to feel such a way about the boy he had just agreed to employ, but it wasn’t like he was going to jump his bones by the next conversation they had. Bill simply enjoyed Stanley’s assuming nature. 

As he finished the last touches of the painting, Bill felt the feeling ebb away slightly. He put his brush down, satisfied with the end result, and grabbed for his phone to take a picture. The lighting was all wrong and the paint was still drying, but even in a photo it managed to emit a bit of sunshine that Bill was feeling. 

heighhosilveraway:  _ (sent a photo) _

heighhosilveraway: just finished. like JUST finsihed

heighhosilveraway: the paint? she’s wet

heighhosilveraway: but i thot you might want to see since u helped with the pallete

heighhosilveraway: i call him Andy Is A Thot For Not Responding To Me

heighhosilveraway: u like?

lendmeyourbones: Shoot, sorry, I just woke up. 

lendmeyourbones: Wow, James. That’s…

heighhosilveraway: its?????

lendmeyourbones: Beautiful. Really. It’s breathtaking. 

heighhosilveraway: it;s better in person

lendmeyourbones: Well I’d give anything to see it. 

heighhosilveraway: maybe youcan one day ;)

lendmeyourbones: Maybe. Thanks for sharing with me, that was the best wakeup message ever. 

lendmeyourbones: What a gift it was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's not necessarily ocd that i'm giving Bill bc i feel unqualified to properly write a character that has ocd but i know that a tendency of ocd is to keep to routines strictly. this is more anxiety-based and it will tie into georgie and his death later on it will make sense i promise  
leave me a comment and i'll paint you as an angel  
follow me on tumblr @/deafwestnewsies


	3. take it all back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill brought it up in the first place.

heighhosilveraway: okay now imagine the world is under attack. by aliens. 

heighhosilveraway: what theh hell is flash gonna do then. 

lendmeyourbones: How did the aliens get there?

heighhosilveraway: one of flash’s 838336728 arch nemises opens up a portal. 

lendmeyourbones: Easy. He’d travel back in time and stop them. 

lendmeyourbones: Try to challenge me at least a little if you’re going to insult the greatest superhero of all time, please. 

heighhosilveraway: SPIDERMAN IS RIGHT THERE

lendmeyourbones: I wouldn’t trust spiderman as far as I can throw him! 

heighhosilveraway: HE SLINGS WEBS ANDY HE SLINGS WEBS

heighhosilveraway: HOW DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND

Looking up from his phone, Bill stumbled backwards, taken by surprise. 

heighhosilveraway: I GOTTA GO BUT THIS IS NOT OVER.

lendmeyourbones: Oh yes, I’m very scared. 

A pair of red shoes sitting behind the storefront lip greeted Bill on Monday morning as he subconsciously realized he didn’t have his pepper spray. In the past, the people sleeping on his stoop hadn’t been much trouble, moving with an apology when Bill softly asked them if he could open up the grate that covered the door. However, everyone in the city knew to be wary, and Bill could kick himself in that moment for not taking better caution. His roommate, Eddie, was always lecturing him on the dangers of walking around alone with his earbuds in, and finally agreed that if Bill carried some sort of defense on him, he would stop the stern talking-tos. Hearing Eddie’s words echo in his ears  _ ( _ _ If you had it, pepper spray or mace gets you enough time to evade a potential attacker and seek help!) _ he crept towards the anonymous pair of shoes. 

He sighed in relief upon seeing that it was just Stanley sitting with his legs stretched out on a small rug. Nodding his head subconsciously to the headphones he had in, the boy stared out into the distance with his eyes glazed over. Bill stepped out in front of him and waved sheepishly. The earbuds came out as Stanley smiled brightly, and Bill felt the sun shine a little bit stronger on his back. “Good morning! You’re here early,” he remarked. 

“I wasn’t sure when you needed me here by, and I didn’t want to take any risks.” Stan admitted, shrugging. He began to sit up and roll the mat when Bill laughed. 

“What on earth is that?” The rug was a brightly patterned rainbow and rolled into a remarkably tight bundle, quickly disappearing into Stanley’s backpack. 

As he zipped it up, the boy got to his feet and dusted himself off lightly. “Oh, I just don’t like sitting on the floor and carrying a folding chair with me seems awfully cumbersome.” He paused for a moment, the tone of his voice implying that he was incredibly serious, but both boys giggled at the image. 

“If you start carrying a chair, I’ll bring a picnic table, and we can call ourselves a team.” Bill joked as he began unlocking the door. He felt Stanley hesitate before walking in, so he called over his shoulder, “I’ll show you all the opening duties. They’re not much, but if it’s helpful to have you in them we can discuss you starting earlier.” Once inside, he felt himself stall for a second, unsure of how he wanted to go about things. Opening was something that Bill had down to a science, and to throw another person into the mix, even voluntarily, was something he had to get his mind to understand first. Before he could say anything, Stanley went over to flick the lights on. 

The fluorescent glow shocked Bill out of his headspace. “N-N-No. Turn th-them off.” He hadn’t meant for it to come out so abruptly, but the look on Stanley’s face gave him enough information. “S-S-S-Sorry.”  _ S-S-S-Stutter boy. _ “I like things d-d-done a c-c-certain way.” A quick nod came from the other man as Bill set his bag down at the register and pointed below, where a small basket hung. “I keep the keys here. The master key unlocks everything except the register. That’s the small one,” he held up his personal keychain, “and I don’t really let it out of my sight. I’ll make a copy as soon as I can. Do you mind unlocking all of the cabinets?” Stanley took the keys without complaint and began sliding up the different cage doors as Bill took deep breaths. 

One of the things Bill tried to mask for people who didn’t know him that well was how controlling he was. Not over other people, not in a negative way, but in a way that made him seem like a freak in the eyes of a stranger. Eddie had tried on multiple occasions to see a doctor about the impulses he had, the routines he had to follow, but Bill didn’t want to find out that he had an official diagnosis. Secretly, he had done enough internet surfing to give him an idea of what he had, and the words always lingered in the back of his mind. 

Stanley slid the keys over to Bill, making him realize that he had been absentmindedly fingered the bag with the bank of the day inside. “What’s next?” His eyes were wide with gentle curiosity, and Bill found himself to be grateful at the boy’s willingness to work. They walked to the collection of easels and started to fill the stations with water, new paints, and any upkeep that needed to happen. “So,” Stanley started. “How’d you get into art?” 

“Oh, like anyone else. I loved kindergarten.” Stanley snorted as Bill privately grinned at his joke. It wasn’t all a joke, he did love kindergarten, but also kept drawing because his little brother would always urge him to draw little animals, his portrait, anything that would make Georgie happy. Finding out about his brother was a “Level Twenty Four Secret,” as his friend Beverly would joke. And Bill was not going to unload all of his trauma onto the newest hire, because he was pretty sure that was considered a form of harassment and he didn’t really have an HR person. “Where were you born?” 

“Brooklin, but not the one you’re thinking of. It’s a tiny little town in-” 

“Maine!” Bill finished excitedly. “Yes! I’m from D-Derry! We were like two towns over from each other.” 

Stanley cocked his head to the side for a second, face deep in thought. “Derry. Did I read about you guys in the papers?” 

“T-The papers?”  _ G-G-Georgie? Wuh-Where’d you go? Mom n-n-needs us buh-buh-back by now! “ _ Are you suh-suh-secretly eighty four?” The tone seemed relaxed, but his brain began racing with the memories that had burn themselves into his retinas. Bill’s chest began to rise and fall in quicker succession and he steadied himself on the countertop. “We had a few things happen, but nothing to attract national attention, trust me.” 

Finally catching a breath, Bill watched as Stanley nodded to himself and then carefully measured out water for each of the stools. Each jar was filled to a precise, invisible line that only he could see, but the level of care Stanley took was evident on his face. The simple act of precision made the feeling swell back up in Bill’s chest, and he dropped his shoulders, reaching to rub out the bits of tension. Stanley hadn’t meant to ask questions that struck a nerve. Hell, they were normal conversation starters, and Bill had brought up hometowns in the first place. He was working himself up over scenarios that only made sense in his head when he had a new opportunity to make friends and enjoy his time at the store more. 

Bill began dropping paint brushes at every easel and looked around. Everything was ready for the day to begin, and they finished exactly on time. 

“Well, it looks like we make a good team.” Bill remarked. “If you’d like to help out in the mornings, you can. More hours I guess?” 

Stanley laughed, tying an apron around his waist. “Hearing my boss say more hours sounds like music to my ears.” 

heighhosilveraway: i made a complete fool of myself at least twice and i haven’t been awake for three hours 

lendmeyourbones: Ooh. Please tell me everything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally hate this chapter it sucks i'm sorry the next ones get better i swear   
leave a comment and i'll buy you a pair of red shoes.   
follow me on tumblr @/deafwestnewsies


	4. ready, set, not yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan knows how good Bill is.

“So how do you feel about leading one of the Saturday sessions?”  _ His hands were filthy. When had he used pink marker? _ The answer was truly a mystery as Bill stared at the smiley face that presented itself on the back of his left hand. As he got up to use the sink, there was a great clatter behind him. 

Stanley was now on the ground, furiously mopping up the remnants of his coffee that he dropped when Bill had asked him to lead the Saturday classes. He hadn’t been there for very long, coming up on his fourth week, and it was already evident how much Bill loved his Saturday mornings. He would usually tag along to help fill in the gaps, when old ladies couldn’t see the fine details Bill was adding or correcting people on their paint brush technique. Of course that was his excuse, coming under the guise of helping, but the truth would lie in the way Bill’s eyes lit up when teaching someone how to correctly sketch out a jawline, when he found a way to break through the awkward excuses of “I don’t really do art like this,” and finally show someone that art didn’t have to be beautiful to everyone. 

The mornings always began like this. Bill would sit down at the front, often with a french toast bagel in one hand and a mug of tea in the other, and deliberately look each person in the eye. “Each one of you are here for a reason,” he would begin. The words dripped from his mouth like honey falling from a spoon, taking their time as they spilled. “Whether it be that you saw someone’s facebook post, or you wanted to try something new, or you just wanted your kid to not make a mess in your house for one hour.” All the parents would titter at that without fail, the older children crossing their arms good naturedly. “So I have a few rules. First, try, try, try again. Even if you mess up and have to get a whole new canvas, you have to keep going until you’re done. Or if it hits eleven, because that’s when I open the shop to the general public. Second, please clean your brushes once you are done using them, that’s just a tremendous help to me and Stan back there.” This is when Stanlely would smile at the crowd of curious eyes, sometimes hiding a mouthful of bagel crumbs. 

“Speaking of Stan, he’ll be my lovely assistant for the day. If you have any questions, raise your hand, and he’ll come answer them. Third, and finally, if you don’t like what you have created, you must put it on display in your home for three days. Obviously I have no way of enforcing this, but just try to promise me. Because sometimes we hate the fact that the art we make isn’t perfect. I deal with it everyday. Even Stanley, right?” _ A nod of agreement. _ “But the more you look at it, the more you realize the faults make it your art. No one but you could’ve added the specific flairs to that specific painting. Everything that you take time into making has a reason for existing, and is beautiful, whether you see it one the first day or the millionth. Does that make sense?” The room by this point would inevitably be enraptured by his leisurely presence, and even the most rambunctious of children would be listening as he spoke. Everyone would blink themselves back into the present and then wholeheartedly agree in various tones with him. “Alrighty then! Who’s ready to begin?” 

Clearly, this was a very big pair of shoes for Stanley to step into. Art was something that came naturally to him, a sketchpad was practically an adopted limb by the time he could grip a beginner’s pencil in his chubby baby fist. Public speaking was a whole ‘nother ball game that he was not prepared to play in. He just didn’t have the inspiring words that Bill used to entrance entire groups of nervous beginners into taking a deep breath and just experimenting. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” The gesture towards the spilt coffee was weak, but his hands had stopped shaking at the very least. “But I do know that I can’t lead a Saturday session. You’d lose so many customers.” 

“Are you kidding me? Everyone loves you!” Bill called over his shoulder, walking into the restroom to throw the sopping paper towels away. 

Stan almost laughed out loud, but he didn’t want Bill to think he was agreeing with him good-naturedly. Last Saturday he had made a small child cry by critiquing too hard, four middle aged women roll their eyes when he told them the price of the class was final, (“If you can’t afford it, why’d you come?”) and the little old lady Bill had described as  _ nothing but perfectly lovely _ threatened to dump her dirty water on him. It was safe to say that everyone did  _ not _ love him, by any stretch of the imagination. “I think you’re the only person who loves me. Just trust me when I say it’s probably not a great idea.” 

The look on Bill’s face when he came back into the room almost made him want to take it back, but he knew that his teaching would genuinely probably turn people away at the door. “Alright.” Finality filled Bill’s voice. “But.” Stan looked up to see his eyes sparkle with mischief. “Eventually you will lead the class, and you have to come up with the concept art yourself. It’s now an employee rule.” 

He laughed, this time out loud, the full sound that struck in Bill’s heart, and began collecting his things. “Eventually. A very prolonged eventually.” With a skip in his step, Stanley raised his hand in parting and exited the store. Bill stared at the neon pink smiley face drawn on the back of the other boy’s hand and bit back a grin.  _ That sneaky bastard _ , he thought as he rubbed the matching one on the back of his hand. 

heighhosilveraway: humor me

heighhosilveraway: stars or smiley faces

lendmeyourbones: I’m always humoring you.

lendmeyourbones: Smiley faces. 

heighhosilveraway: take it back bastard

lendmeyourbones: No, because I refuse to tell a lie. 

heighhosilveraway: nothing in ur moral constitution about being a bastard though huh

lendmeyourbones: Rude!! That’s mean!!!!

heighhosilveraway: ur too softtttttttttt

heighhosilveraway: bastard

lendmeyourbones: Mean man!!!!!!

heighhosilveraway: yep. a mean evil man that’s what it says on my birth certificate 

lendmeyourbones: I should know, I signed it. 

heighhosilveraway: what does that mean OLD MAN

lendmeyourbones: I don’t know, why don’t you ask your mom? 

heighhosilveraway: he hits he scores!

lendmeyourbones: Yeah, with your mom. 

heighhosilveraway: BASTARD 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bill's speech was such a fun lil thing to write also stan loves bill bitches he just doesn't see it yet. like who tf looks at their friend and is like "the whole world is in love with him! i sure do admire that!" Staniel It Is Love.   
comment and i will buy you a french toast bagel.   
follow me on tumblr @/deafwestnewsies


	5. rhynochetos jubatus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan gets to talk about birds and bill gets to learn about birds.

“Well have you ever heard of New Caledonia?” 

Seeing the serious look on the boy’s face, Bill tried to stifle his laughter. “I-I can’t say I have, no.” 

“Well,” Stanley grabbed tupperware from his backpack and neatly began unpacking everything. A fork and knife to his left, two napkins on his right. The bag of grapes went towards the middle of the table as he motioned for Bill to take any if he would care for some and the pasta (Garlic pesto sauce with a mozzarella tortellini. Stan considered himself quite the gourmand.) centered everything. “It’s a collectivity on the coast of France, where the Kagu is native. The species remains there because they literally never fly, which is a huge deal because they can’t escape their predators. They’re almost extinct with like, only a thousand of them left. There’s another species that’s almost like it’s cousin but not really to me because the Kagu is so pretty. It’s the palest shade of smoky blue and the legs are such a striking orange-” He caught himself before he began rambling about the way ornithologists considered them a sacred, honorable bird. “Sorry. But yeah, I prefer cold weather over hot, if that answers your question.” 

“Well that and so much more. I feel like I learn something new everytime I’m with you!” The exclamation was more shock than judgement, but it still made Stanley turn red with embarrassment. He did that often, Bill had noticed. At the drop of a hat, the boy could turn bright as a red-crested cardinal. Another skill he had mastered was turning the conversation to birds, even when the original topic had been nothing of the sort. Bill had made an offhand comment about the heat they had been experiencing all of a sudden, and he now knew more about  _ Rhynochetos Jubatus _ than he ever thought he would have. Which, since Stan had mentioned the different colors, the unusual shape of the bird, Bill was itching to get his hands on a set of colored pencils and maybe some watercolors. Just as he was reaching for the supplies, his watch beeped at him. Quarter to three. 

The alarm quelled the need to draw and instead had him clearing away the trash from his lunch. Awkwardly he swept the crumbs off the table into his cupped hand, making his best attempt at not dropping them to the carpet where they were inevitably bound to be fodder for ants. Stanley made no comment about this, because he was entirely too used to this process by now. The beep of an alarm would direct Bill to a new activity, whether it meant that he would walk out of a room without warning or finally unpacking the new shipment of boxes. It took Stanley back a bit at first, but then he realized it was just Bill’s nature. He was never malicious with the abrupt ending of conversations and would often call out apologies from the next room, aware of the move he had just made. 

lendmeyourbones : I’m bored. 

lendmeyourbones : On break at work and my only friend has to go back to doing his lame job.

Bill, in respect to the fact that another human being would be inhabiting the space, had cleared out the office. Eyeing a canvas that had been flipped over, Stan curiously noticed it, never having seen Bill’s work outside of the Saturday classes. They were usually portraits of places, a flower in the woods, an open field that’s framed with trees, nothing that required creative thought and energy. Stan wanted to see what Bill could imagine. 

heighhosilveraway : dont make fun of the working man

heighhosilveraway : some of us have to hussle 

lendmeyourbones : Hussle?

lendmeyourbones : Do you mean… hustle?

heighhosilveraway : shtu the fuck up

lendmeyourbones : You’re impossible. 

heighhosilveraway : impossibly good looking yes

lendmeyourbones : Your profile picture is a picture of Balloony from Phineas and Ferb. 

heighhosilveraway : ALMOST as handsome as me

heighhosilveraway : i have less wrinkles 

heighhosilveraway : YOUR PICTURE IS OF A BIRD 

heighhosilveraway : so why am i getting picked on

lendmeyourbones : A Hyacinth Macaw is one of the most vibrant, beautiful birds on the planet. 

lendmeyourbones : And I can guarantee that it looks better than I do. 

heighhosilveraway : dont beat urself up andy

heighhosilveraway : as christina agulaira once said,,,,, u are beautiful

lendmeyourbones : The Aguilera disrespect.

lendmeyourbones : Please tell me you are out right now, enjoying nature or watching a good movie or doing something fun

lendmeyourbones : I need reminder that life outside of work exists. 

The doorbell chimed in the arrival of a new customer, and Stan heard a heavy sigh from the counter. _ I should go and keep him company, _ his thoughts ate away at him until he began packing his lunch items up.  _ Fork in the trash, knife in the trash. _ Breaks were basically a reprieve from half-heartedly restocking shelves when one worked at The Artist’s Attic.  _ Napkins folded in two triangles. _ It wasn’t hard work, doing retail for a very hole-in-the-wall art shop, especially when Bill had the whole running a business thing down pat. _ Napkin one in the trash. Napkin two in the trash.  _ There was the added enjoyment of Bill himself, a boy who he had assumed was just going to be pleasant and quiet, but proved himself to be rambunctious and always ready to entangle Stan in a new scheme.  _ Wash the container in the sink. _ His eyes would glint with deviltry every time the store had been quiet for too long, and Stan would find himself in a challenge to draw a clown the fastest, or racing down the aisles with a cup of paint water, trying desperately not to spill.  _ Tap the scrub brush against the side of the sink four times. _ Underneath the countertop was a paper that read all of their score totals. _ Dry the container out completely.  _ Bill was currently winning. 

Stan walked out to see Bill slip his phone into his pocket, ignoring the incoming notification buzz he felt come from the back of his jeans. “So if you could be any character from any animated movie, which one would it be?” The smile that lit up Bill’s face made ending his lunch early worth it, worth it a million times over. 

_ missed notifications _

heighhosilveraway : idk i’m at work but sometimes. it’s not that bad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello gorls i am back. IT WILL PICK UP NEXT CHAPTER I SWEARRRRR  
leave a comment and i will pick your favorite bird and learn everything about it and give a powerpoint presentation on it   
follow me on tumblr @/deafwestnewsies

**Author's Note:**

> okay so i'm doing an exercise where i write at least one page a day and so this is how this fic came into existence. it won't be good or edited but read if you please. leave a comment and i'll stitch you a field of flowers.  
follow me on tumblr @/deafwestnewsies


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